Gwen leans over to pat my hand. “Because, of course, if anything goes wrong, we’re now counting on you to do your part, dear.”
Do my part? I draw back from them both and stick a piece of fruit in my mouth. And shove down my cough before it gives away the fact that whatever expectations they have of using me are complete litches.
One, two, three moments of silence settle in, during which Rasha flicks me with cautious glances. I, in turn, extend sympathy to her for these ridiculous political games she’s stuck in. Is this how the High Council operates? No wonder her Luminescent self gets overwhelmed by too many people in one room. Constantly hearing barely civil words being said while sensing what’s left unsaid. It’s all laced with suspicion and need.
The quiet is broken by Lady Gwen setting her cup down too loudly. “And what, Princess Rasha, may I inquire is Cashlin hoping for most in terms of negotiation and trade?”
“Our hope is to begin a friendship with Bron and build our way up from there. As far as trade, that will greatly depend on what Bron has that we deem worth trading for.”
Lord Wellimton smirks. “A very to-the-point statement, Princess. Some might even say supercilious once you enter the negotiation chamber. Especially considering your kingdom avoided taking sides in the war at all costs.”
“Cashlin makes no apology for being a pacifist nation.”
“Of course not. But you can see how a good intention such as that could be misinterpreted at the negotiation table. It could appear your interests only lie toward what you can gain rather than in hard-fought-for unity.”
Her voice stays steady but her shoulders tense. “Cashlin enjoys its friendships, Lord Wellimton, and we unabashedly support unity. However, we’ve discovered that taking sides in a war does not always result in desirable unity, nor does it mean we feel obligated to give up our natural resources easily. As I said, our hope is for the start of a relationship between Cashlin and Bron, just as we have done with yours.”
Lord Percival tips his head in apparent approval just as the airship dips and rattles. From what Colin once told me, tipping his head is what Lord Percival does best. “It’s his most pleasant and worst feature,” Colin had whispered one evening while we were spying on him at Adora’s. “It’s like he can’t ’elp but agree with everyone on everythin’, includin’ the king and the council. Even his wife from what I hear.”
“Smart man,” I’d mumbled, and Colin had punched me in the arm. But somehow that head tipping makes me now inclined to like him.
“And what about you?” Rasha continues. “What are you most hoping for?”
Wellimton shoots Percival a look. “Ahem. That’s currently a matter of private discussion. You unders—”
“Access to your waterways for trade with their metal mines?” Rasha says in her airy tone. Her brown eyes exhibit a slight red glow. “With maybe some airships thrown in?”
The delegates’ faces pale.
Before anyone can respond, I stand. “While this has been most interesting, I think I’ll take a walk on the deck outside.” I look at the Bron and two Faelen guards for permission, but the entire room shudders loudly and tips. With a clatter, the plates and food tumble across the floor and it’s all I can do to hold on to the back of my chair, which, mercifully, is bolted down as is the rest of the furniture. I keep my feet beneath me until the ship tilts back. It trembles again and then the Bron soldier is holding his hand out to us. “My apologies, but the storm is picking up. I must return you all to your quarters.”
“Why?” Lady Gwen asks.
“For safety. Now you’ll all come with me, please.”
“Oh Nym, take care of the weather, won’t you, dear?” Lady Gwen flutters her hand at me. “That way we can stay and finish our chat!”
Percival nods. “Yes, show us how it works for you. It’d be fascinating to watch an Elemental control a storm. Here, what do you need from us?”
“That would be highly dangerous,” the guard interrupts. “The use of her abilities would threaten not only this airship, but the one travelling behind us. Please, I’ll see you to your rooms.”
I shoot him a grateful eyeful, which he ignores, and step toward him when a shimmer of lightning flashes maybe seventy-five terrameters in the distance. Despite the ache it brings, I stride over to watch the three, four, five lightning bolts follow it. Because something about feeling its effect on the sky creates a fleeting sense of normal. A sense of power, even if from the outside rather than within, if only for a minute.
Lady Gwen’s screech is jolting. “But those strikes are going to hit us. She can stop them!”
“No, mum, they won’t. But we need to get you someplace secure. Miss?” the guard says in my direction.